


The Kindest Thing

by nameonehero



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, More tags to be added, Some Humor, Supernatural Elements, heavily inspired by and referencing The Umbrella Academy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameonehero/pseuds/nameonehero
Summary: "He really should have stayed in bed. He should have gone to get some more cigarettes instead of being a part of this shitshow, that way his fingers wouldn’t be itching and he wouldn’t have to deal with the mortifying ordeal of talking to people who actually know what a fuck-up he is. A win-win kind of situation. One day he’d really like to find out what those are like in real life."or, an Umbrella Academy AU with original characters.
Relationships: Ely Garcia & Yana Machida
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	The Kindest Thing

It’s disconcerting at best - and utterly, _mind-numbingly_ terrifying in reality - to step foot into the wide empty halls of the academy again. Ely feels small and insignificant standing in a doorway arch almost three times his height, remembers how easy it was to get lost in his first few weeks here. One of Yana’s wings brushes the bare skin of his arm and only years of practice keep Ely from flinching away from the icy, feather-light touch. Her presence anchors him just enough to ignore his skittish flight-instincts and take another step forward, despite the voices that are already wailing and begging, echoing through every corner and crevice in the building with a volume Ely longs to cover his ears against.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters through gritted teeth. His hands are clenched into tight fists, trembling slightly in his semi-functional jean pockets. They’re ripped in more places than the actual jeans are and the amount of lighters he’s lost to those goddamn pockets is actually appalling. _Fuck_ , he’d really like a cigarette right about now but _of course_ he had to run out this morning, it’s all Sanai’s fault; Sanai and her inability to let anything go and just learn to live with family tragedies like the rest of them …

“Ely,” Yana says softly, stepping in front of him to make him look at her. “Be nice to her,” she urges with her red-rimmed, small doe eyes and a voice so fragile it makes Ely want to punch his knuckles bloody.

Anger comes and goes like his sobriety does these days, in fleeting bursts of violent agony that leave his muscles sore and his chest aching, and Ely finds none of those feelings are worth experiencing for any prolonged period of time unless he’s going to dig out his old gun and put a bullet in his brain. He breathes against the furious hum in his veins instead, reigning it in for Yana’s sake. Ely knows what might happen if he doesn’t, and that’s a can of worms he’s not going to open if he can help it.

“Yeah, I’ll play nice, don’t worry,” he mutters grumpily and, when Yana still won’t move out of his way, adds in a gentler tone, “Pinky promise, love, alright?”

That does it.

She beams at him, straightening her shoulders before tiptoeing down the dimly lit hallway backwards without sparing a glance where she’s going. Ely watches her arching wings twitch and flap above her small frame, wishing he was still able to run his fingers through the feathers like he used to many years ago. He can still sense her proximity, the cold sensation when she brushes up against him or tries to grab his arm or clutch his hands, but there is no warmth anymore, no solid weight to lean on. It’s wrong, and every fibre of Ely’s body knows that, _fears_ it, and if he wants to keep her in his life he’s going to have to live with that fear forever.

“Are you coming?”, she calls out, pulling him from his wandering thoughts.

Ely sighs and moves to follow her. His fingers itch for a cigarette to burn away the tight coil of apprehension in his gut, and maybe something stronger to tune out the pained cries of restless souls all around him. This is why he left in the first place: The academy reeks of dust and death and its high walls are painted in memories he spent a majority of his miserable twenties trying to forget, and now he’s back like an obedient little puppy ready to be kicked and yelled at again, all because Sanai called and threatened to personally drag him here if he didn’t come home.

Ely lifts a hand and drags it across his face, tries to tuck some overgrown curls behind his ears but just ends up with his fingers catching in tangled strands of hair. He probably didn’t brush it this morning when Sanai’s phone call left him reeling. Or the night before, which he doesn’t remember much aside from blurry club lights and the feeling of sweaty bodies pressed up close to his own, swaying in a vague rhythm he was too drunk to recognize.

With an annoyed little puff of breath, he lowers his arm and walks past a group of tattered, blood-streaked figures. They reach for him with pale arms, their fingers twig-like and bony, and Ely shivers when one of them gets close enough to touch the back of his hand. He swallows heavily against a rush of nausea and fastens his steps.

The old hardwood floorboards creak beneath his battered sneakers and the further Ely follows Yana into the academy, the more he’s starting to regret every life choice that led him here. “If this blows up in our faces, I’m blaming you!” Ely shouts at the corner Yana just disappeared around.

Instead of an answer, his ears pick up the rumble of distant voices.

Great. You’d think they would be a little less eager to discuss Sanai’s dead best friend, their dead little sister who never should have gone the way she had to, and who has somehow become Ely’s best (and only) friend during the last eight years or so. Except, Ely thinks as he reluctantly approaches the dining room, none of the others are aware of that last part.

He really should have stayed in bed. He should have gone to get some more cigarettes instead of being a part of this shitshow, that way his fingers wouldn’t be itching _and_ he wouldn’t have to deal with the mortifying ordeal of talking to people who actually know what a fuck-up he is. A win-win kind of situation. One day he’d really like to find out what those are like in real life. Of course it’s just his luck that someone picks up on his presence while he’s still busy daydreaming about the sweet sweet rush of nicotine and twisting out of the way of yet another pair of grabby cold hands:

“Hey, Ely, hovering in the doorway like a shy first-grader isn’t gonna get us out of here any faster, you know? Get your ass in here.”

The voice is so painfully familiar, Ely finds it very hard to believe that they haven’t seen each other in at least four years. He suppresses about six different emotions at once, carefully smoothes his face into the blank expression Yana keeps calling his “bitch face”, and walks into the dining room with slow, steady steps.

Five pairs of eyes turn to watch him enter with varying degrees of interest and Ely freezes for a second because he never expected _all_ of them to be here, especially on such short notice, and yet there they are: Closest to him is Diego, sporting a t-shirt that seems a good size or two too small on his broad frame and looking grumpy as ever where he’s leaning against the high-backed chair that used to be their … dad’s? prison guard’s? Ely might never figure that one out unless he starts some serious therapy.

“You reek like a strip club,” Diego informs him casually as Ely comes closer, all crossed arms and pinched face but Ely knows him well enough to detect the familiar brand of stilted fondness in his words and can’t quite help cracking a little smile.

“Like you would know, party pooper.”

It’s as close to saying _good to see you_ as either of them will get. When Ely leans up, Diego actually untangles his bulging biceps for a second to mirror his quick, crushing bear hug.

Someone clears their throat behind them. Probably Sanai, but when Ely lets go of Diego to look around for her, he gets a little side-tracked by, well, _Yana_ , who is crowded as close against Sanai at the opposite end of the table as she can possibly get without having her slightly shimmering, blue-tinged limbs disappear into the space Sanai’s very real and solid body occupies, and isn’t _that_ a trippy thought to have at ass o’clock in the afternoon? She has also spread her wings to wrap around herself and Sanai in a tight half-circle, feathers fluffed up and ruffled to make them look three times their usual size, and something aches deep in Ely’s chest when he notices the way her wings are trembling, shivering as if to ward off freezing cold.

Ely isn’t sure if Yana still feels temperature that way. He desperately hopes she doesn’t.

She used to steal Diego’s hoodies all the time because they’d reach down all the way to her knees and happily hide away in the oversized sleeves since _They’re so much warmer than my clothes, and softer, too_.

Ely swallows against the lump in his throat. “You alright?”, he asks quietly.

Yana’s only reply is a brief teary-eyed look in his direction.

“Who, me?”, Sanai asks a little frostily, which is fair since she’s a) standing right next to the empty air Ely just addressed, b) not really a person he has ever expressed genuine concern for over the years, and c) … well. _Alright_ is a word they all scrapped from their dictionaries a long time ago.

Ely sighs. “No, not you.”

He should have stayed the fuck in bed.

“Oh, so you’re still talking to your imaginary friends, then?” She looks him up and down completely unbothered in a way that makes his muscles tense defensively. “That’s great, Ely, really. So glad to see we’ve all grown up.”

“Hey!”, Diego throws in.

He's probably just trying to be nice but Ely is sick of being talked to like a child, and he might not be as fragile as he used to but he still wishes Sanai wouldn’t dismiss him and his _imaginary friends_ like that because _he_ is the one who has to deal with Yana’s wounded expression. Her wings droop until the lowest feathers are dragging across the floor.

Ely takes a deep breath, not even pretending to keep the venom out of his words when he tells Sanai, “You have no idea. Never did.”

They glare at each other in tense silence.

(Well, silence for all the lucky bastards who can't hear a bunch of lost souls wailing like they're trying to pierce the veil and shatter some glasses or whatever.)

Out of the corner of his eye, Ely sees Tarek shifting uncomfortably in his chair, slumping a little lower in his seat while Bonnie’s forehead crinkles in concern next to him. They are the only ones who haven’t bothered leaving several feet of precautionary distance between them – they might be the only ones who won’t actually need it.

“Either get off your high horse, or get out,” Sanai grounds out, pulling him from his musings. Her knuckles are strained white from how hard she is leaning down on her fists, placed a shoulder-width apart on the heavy tabletop in front of her.

“Ely, don’t,” Yana pleads quietly.

Just as he snaps his mouth shut to swallow the words already burning on the tip of his tongue, there’s a _bang_.

Everyone collectively flinches.

It’s Ariana, because _of course it is_ , Ely thinks a little sourly as he eyes the flat palm she just slammed against the table like freaking Wonder Woman. Now she’s leaning back against her chair – opposite Bonnie and Tarek, right in the middle of Sanai and Ely’s respective table ends. She picked the seat farthest apart from everyone else just like she always has, thin gloves on her hands that look like they’ll rip if you look at them wrong but could probably withstand actual bullets. The only thing different about her is the buzz-cut.

“Are you done?” Ariana flicks her sharp gaze between Ely and Sanai, treating them both to her well-practiced _no bullshit_ single raised eyebrow with such a blatant lack of effort it should be illegal.

Ely’s not gonna lie, he tried to achieve that look throughout the entirety of his teenage years and never succeeded. He’s most likely going to die mad about it.

But, instead of wallowing any longer in his past failures, he drawls, “Sure, boss,” and smiles at her sweetly enough to be annoying on purpose. And then, before _someone_ (Sanai) can use the following silence to keep antagonizing him and break Yana’s heart some more in the process, he adds, “Digging the new look, by the way. Some real Furiosa vibes right there.”

In her spot next to Tarek, Bonnie makes a strangled little noise.

Diego snorts out a laugh. “Don’t give her ideas, man, she’s already crabby and threatening enough as it is.”

No self-preservation instincts whatsoever, that guy. It’s probably why Ely gets along with him so well.

Ariana glares at Diego in a way that adds further proof to _both_ of his arguments and Ely is half certain the day is going to end with at least a _tiny_ amount of actual blood-shed when Tarek’s timid voice chimes in with a soft, “I think it suits you.”

He immediately ducks his head when several heads turn to him in surprise. Dark brown hair falls like a curtain in front of his face, his hands are wrangled together tightly in his lap. He’s twisting his fingers around each other in aborted little movements and Ely can hear how he's trying to control his breathing.

Something about it feels awfully familiar. It’s like they’re twelve years old and terrified out of their minds again, just for a second.

And then, just as Ariana regards Tarek with an uncharacteristically gentle, “Thank you,” the huge chandelier in the centre of the ceiling starts to shake.

Ely’s muscles freeze up.

The ghosts he passed on the way in? He dimly thinks he can hear them screaming in terror now instead of their regular reasons, scrambling all over each other to get away from the foreign power they no doubt feel in the very marrow of their dead bones.

He’s been here before.

“Tarek,” Ariana says, and she’s slowly standing up but still so far away, she’s _always too far away_ , and she doesn’t try to get closer, either.

“Hey, you’re okay, it’s okay.”

That’s Bonnie, Ely thinks. His body still hasn’t remembered how moving works, and Yana might be talking to him but the ghosts’ screams are so loud, they’re drowning her out. He wants to cover his ears so badly.

Instead, Ely stares ahead blankly, caught like a deer in the headlights ( _or a butterfly pinned by its wings, dying_ , dead, his mind helpfully supplies, because that fits better, death always fits him better) while one of Bonnie’s hands hovers over Tarek’s shoulder, not quite touching but ready to do the very second he allows it.

“I’m … ‘m sorry,” Tarek whispers.

The intricate, strung-up crystals of the chandelier clink together above their heads, several lights in their midst flickering briefly before stabilizing again. Ely can’t look away from Tarek’s shaky hands, half-hidden underneath the table.

“It’s okay,” Bonnie repeats gently. She’s good at hiding the fear in her voice, almost good enough to fool Ely, who is the resident fucking _expert_ on fear.

He thinks he can hear Yana crying, calling his name. The rustle of feathers. It hurts to remember their softness and know he won’t ever get to touch them again.

Tarek squeezes the fingers of his left hand with those of his right, tightly enough to make joints crack, and it sounds like a whip crack in Ely’s ears.

Once again, he thinks, _I’ve been here before_.

Then the flickering lights and twisting fingers fade into blackness and he passes the fuck out.


End file.
